The Dreamwalker E-Book

William Timothy Murray

• Herausgeber: Penflight Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Tallinvale is surrounded.
And there's no way out...

Lord Tallin's plan has worked. He has drawn a massive army to Tallinvale and it now surrounds his city. The enemy prepares to deliver a devastating blow. The people of Tallinvale must hold out, and Lord Tallin must permit them to suffer until the time is right to unleash his secret weapon. It is a colossal gamble, meant to buy Robby the time he needs. But the Redvest enemy has a secret weapon of its own.
Robby, meanwhile, struggles onward to Griferis. But he discovers that he is not the only dreamwalker looking in on his people back in Janhaven. Another dreamwalker, working as a spy for the Redvests, seeks to trick Mirabella into revealing the fighting strength of her people. With that information, the Redvests of Passdale will move to outflank and capture Janhaven once and for all. Unless Robby can stop him.

Little does he suspect the price that will be paid for trying.

Griferis looms ahead, on the other side of Shatuum. Robby's escorts risk everything to get him there. And Griferis, awful and wondrous, awaits.

Robby has no inkling of the terrible price that it, too, will exact.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = =
About The Year of the Red Door

244 Days Remain.
That is all.

The Year of the Red Door has begun, and four months have already passed by. This is the story of the last 244 days.
Uncanny things are taking place in the world, mysterious powers are stirring, and there are signs of coming change. Like pieces on a gameboard, ancient forces are moving into position, gathering strength. Many sense the portents and see the signs, but few know their meaning. Fewer still understand what must be done. But who is there to do it?

In only 244 days, six intrepid travelers must cross thousands of miles, to the far edge of the world, to find a place that may not even exist. A legendary place called Griferis where a new king may be prepared, trained, and judged for worthiness. It is their bid to find that place, to discover the secret Name of the King, and to make one of their companions the new King. But hope is thin, and time runs out. Can the Name be found? Can the Usurper use it to take the throne? And will it make any difference? It already seems too late.

In the spirit of J.R.R. Tolkien and Charles Dickens comes a new heroic tale, a story of ageless love and brave determination, of tragic loss and the hope of redemption. During this quest, mythic powers arise from the ancient past, fate collides with destiny, and the world edges swiftly to its final destruction or to its ultimate fulfillment. Only the Bellringer can tip the balance of fate, but the world is almost out of time...
 

Leseprobe

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 1The Bellringer

Volume 2The Nature of a Curse

Volume 3A Distant Light

Volume 4The Dreamwalker

Volume 5To Touch a Dream

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 4

The Dreamwalker

"For whosoever discovers the Name of the King

so shall he become King."

Copyright Page

The Dreamwalker

Volume 4 of The Year of the Red Door

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-944320-38-6 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-944320-43-0 (mobi)

ISBN: 978-1-944320-48-5 (epub)

StreetLib Distribution

Copyright © 2017 by William Timothy Murray

All Rights Reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For permissions, review copies, or other inquiries, write to:

Penflight Books P.O Box 857 125 Avery Street Winterville, Georgia 30683-9998 USA

[email protected]

Be sure to visit:www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

pfbrev19/1

Publisher's Note

This electronic version of the Second Edition comes with significant enhancements over previous versions. In addition to minor corrections within the text itself, there is also included a glossary at the end of this book. Besides definitions, the glossary also contains links to maps that are also included within this book. The maps themselves have been revised and have coordinates to help you easily find items referenced in the glossary.

Depending on your particular reading device, smartphone, or reading app, you may be able to zoom or enlarge the maps included. If that is not possible with your device, links are provided to the website (www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com) where you can view the maps on your browser.

We have provided the glossary and the maps at the suggestion of our readers, all of whom we sincerely thank. And we hope that all readers, old and new, will make use of and enjoy this enhanced edition.

Penflight Books  

Preface

Welcome to The Year of the Red Door.   For those of you who are curious, I invite you to visit the accompanying web site,

www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com.

There you will find maps and other materials pertaining to the story and to the world in which the story takes place.

The road to publishing The Year of the Red Door has been an adventure, with the usual ups and downs and rough spots that any author may encounter. The bumps and jostles were considerably smoothed by the patient toil of my editors who were, I'm sure, often frustrated by a cantankerous and difficult client.   Nonetheless, I have upon occasion made use of their advice, which was sometimes delivered via bold strokes, underlines, exclamation points, and a few rather cutting remarks handwritten across the pristine pages of my manuscripts. Therefore, any errors that you encounter are due entirely to my own negligence or else a puckish disregard of good advice.

For those of you who might be a bit put off by the scope and epic length of this story, I beg your indulgence and can only offer in my defense a paraphrase of Pascal (or Twain, depending on your preference):

I did not have time to write a short story, so I wrote a long one instead.

The Author   

ToPhilip and Stacy

Prologue

A Lesson in Kindness

It was a very nasty late autumn storm, many years ago. The wind blew chunks of ice from thickly coated branches as more sleet and freezing rain fell in noisy pellets. The roads were slippery and treacherous, and some of the paths were so cluttered with drooping and crackling brush and by fallen limbs that they were hardly passable. But it was along one of these that a bent figure struggled. He had a thin blanket pulled over his head and shoulders, a ragged affair made even less effective against the elements by the many strips he had torn from it. The strips were wrapped and tied around the remnants of his shoes, and a few more he had wrapped about his hands against the cold. With one hand he clutched the blanket at his chin while with his other he pushed away the obstacles before him. His face was speckled with flecks of ice, his beard well-coated. His breathing rasped in stark contrast to the ticking sound of the sleet, now mixed with the occasional flake of snow.

While pushing aside a thick bough full of crystalline needles, his footing slipped and he awkwardly fell, snapping the branch he sought to move and crushing the needles in a shower of miniscule shards. He remained motionless for a long while, panting away the jarring pain that hammered his joints.

"What is the point?" he cried out. Desperate tears formed around his bloodshot eyes. He wanted to weep, he wanted to surrender, he wanted to die. But weeping did not come, the means to surrender evaded him, and death was denied at least for the moment.

He struggled to his knees and managed to get his blanket back around his head. Slowly, he extricated himself from the broken bough and pulled himself to his feet. He pushed through the branches and continued along the twisty path. He did not know where it would take him. He could not guess how long he had been upon it. He could not remember being warm. And was it yesterday when he last ate, when he stumbled into a cache of walnuts? Or was it the day before? It was before the ice. He remembered that much. And he remembered smashing the hard shells with a rock, and how when his grip slipped the rock nearly crushed his fingers. Now they were covered with scabs. One had reopened when he fell, and he absently noted that it was bleeding again.

He pressed on. He did not really notice when the snow overtook the sleet. He did not notice when the path broadened, just as the hoary light of day began to dim. Nor did he notice when he emerged from the forest and passed between snowy fields. So intent on merely moving ahead, it was not until he fell once again and got back to his knees that he saw his surroundings. It was a shock to him. Where was the forest? Gone, and instead he was now in the open, on a trackless snow-covered road. And along the road just before him was a sight that filled him with fear.

Ahead, only a few hundred yards away, was a group of cottages to either side of the road, and beyond them was a small town or village. Smoke drifted from chimneys, but, thankfully, no one was in sight. The memory of the last town terrified him, and the stripes on his back still stung, as did those given him by the village before. He vaguely remembered fleeing around a small lake, eluding his pursuers in the wooded hills.

His heart quickened, his breath grated more violently, and his mind sharpened as he hunched lower lest he be seen. Twisting around, he assessed his situation like a stalked animal preparing to take flight. Behind him, far and away, was the dark misty line of the forest. To either side were broad open fields and no cover.

Turning, he looked again at the forest, nearly a mile back, he guessed. Perhaps he could make his retreat without being seen. He got to one foot, his other knee still on the ground, ready to make a run for it. Then he hesitated. Why would he want to go back that way? It would only take him back to those he had wronged, to those who had wronged him. To shame, to whips and taunts, and to worse.

"Oh take me away, I beg of you!" he hoarsely cried out to the sky, blinking away the snow that melted in his eyes. "Is this to be my punishment? To be cast out in such a manner?"

There was no answer, only the faint tick of snowflakes as they landed.

With strength enough for one last supreme effort, he put his head down and gathered his determination. He would make a dash through the village, through and on and on, until he came out of it and beyond it. Perhaps then he might find some desolate barn, some lonely shelter away from everyone where he could rest, where he could sleep.

He got to his feet. He was resolved to run through the town as quickly as he could. But after only a few steps, the best that he could manage was a terribly awkward shuffle, punctuated by clumsy strides like those of a frail old man, not someone who was only a short time ago in his prime. He passed the first few cottages and entered the town proper, his head down, glancing aside at the lampposts and shops to keep himself in the middle of the road. He felt as if the buildings pressed in against him, their windows like eyes upon him, driving him on. But his strength ebbed quickly, his ability to control his gait abandoned him, his legs now uncoordinated and wild. His knees jerked up and hammered down, though his feet barely raised a hair with each step. His strides became a grinding shuffle, sometimes a foot would drag, sometimes he would step on the loose rags around one shoe with his other. Clutching the blanket around his chin with both hands, his body crooked lower and lower into a precarious stoop, his leaning weight pulling him forward. His feet could not keep up, and he stumbled, falling flat onto his chest, unable to break his fall, his arms and hands fairly crushed.

As quickly as he could, but with agonizing slowness, he got back to one knee. Then he heard the door open. Terrified, he saw a man hurrying toward him with a stern expression as a woman stood in an open doorway behind him. He froze, knowing what was coming, instantly resigning himself to the repetition of his fate. The approaching man suddenly pulled off his long coat, revealing a muscular figure. The stricken traveler turned away, looking down at the snow that caked the rags around his shoe. Somehow, it was like a kind of lacework such that he had seen somewhere before. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blows to fall.

Suddenly he felt a weight upon him as something draped over his shoulders, something warm. Then he felt someone gripping his arms at the elbows. Raising his head, he saw the townsman's face only inches from his own.

"Come," the man said. "It is not fit to be out on such a raw day. Come inside where it is warm and dry. Here, permit me to help you up."

Confused and astonished, the traveler recoiled in fear.

"No, no. I'll not have you out here in the open. I insist that you come inside to the hearth."

Somehow the traveler allowed himself to be coaxed and lifted to his feet, now realizing that the man had draped his own coat around him. He was led to the cottage and inside, then guided to a chair beside a crackling fire.

"Here," said the woman as the man took away his coat. "Let me trade you that shawl for this."

He clutched his ragged covering defensively, but her warm hands loosened his grip, and she gently removed what had been his only shelter for so long and put a warm soft quilt over his shoulders. She pulled it around in front of him and guided his hands to hold it in place.

She moved off to her husband who was closing the door and now hanging his coat on a peg.

"I'll go and fetch a bowl of soup for our guest," she whispered. "Look at how the poor thing shakes!"

"Aye," nodded the husband. "It's a sorry circumstance, I'm sure, to be caught out like so. Run along and hurry back. I'll keep an eye on him."

As she went to the kitchen, he took a chair and sat across from the unexpected guest.

"It's an early winter coming, looks like," he said. All the while, the stranger had watched the man and his wife, his expression blank, but his eyes stark and glittering.

"Yes. A poor time for traveling, as it turns out. Though it was fair and warm enough only four days ago."

The stranger, saying nothing, simply gazed at the man.

"Hm. Well, soon enough it'll pass. Likely it'll be clear and fairly warm again, as it often happens, before the winter really and truly begins. No doubt you are anxious to be on your way? Perhaps you go to Duinnor? They say they have a new king, the sixth, I believe."

The stranger managed an almost imperceptible nod.

"Well, we'll have you back on your way soon."

The wife emerged bearing a tray with a steaming bowl that she put on a side table. Then, taking the bowl and a spoon, she looked at the still-quivering guest.

"Here," she said, putting the spoon down, "take this with both hands and sip right from the bowl. It'll help warm your fingers. It's not too hot."

Seeing the man's hesitation, she glanced at her husband.

"Go ahead. My wife makes the best soups and heartiest stews in town."

The wife put down the bowl, then adjusted the blanket around her guest to free his hands before offering the bowl again. Gaping at her face, he took the bowl into his shaking hands. He glanced around, not knowing where he was, and his expression seemed to soften, though he still shivered, and the firelight danced madly in the pools of his eyes.

"There. See? Just holding a warm bowl feels good, don't it now?" she said.

"Oh, don't hesitate on our account," put in her husband. "There's plenty where that came from, and we'll be joining you when you have your seconds. Meanwhile, I think I'll fetch my pipe."

"Did he say where he's from?" whispered his wife when she joined him at the cupboard.

"He hasn't said a word."

The man found his pipe and pouch, but lingered on the other side of the room as the guest sipped, gradually at first, then with increasing voracity until, very quickly, the bowl was emptied. When the wife took it from his hands, the guest stood uneasily and moved to the door.

"Oh! What's this? Wouldn't you like a bit more?" she asked.

"Where are you going? You can't go back out into all that!" her husband stated.

The guest turned to them and looked from one to the other.

He nodded, which was all the gratitude that he could express. Then he stooped to pick up his tattered blanket that had been left beside the doorway, but he lost his balance and fell against the door heavily. Rushing to him, the man and his wife helped him back to his feet.

"No, no. I do insist that you remain here for a while longer," said the man. "At least until you get your feet back under you."

"Oh," said the woman, putting her hand on the man's forehead. "He's burning up with fever!"

Meanwhile, the visitor was awkwardly clawing at the doorknob, but with no real coordination. Then he crumpled over, in spite of the hands trying to steady him, and he slumped to the floor.

"Oh, oh!"

"Dear, go fetch the neighbors," the man said. "We'll need help getting him upstairs and into bed."

• • •

The next many days were ones of delirium for the traveler. He was put into a bed, covered with blankets, and spoon fed. He vaguely sensed comings and goings. Hands pressed to his forehead. The worst of his fever passed quickly, although it came and went over another week. With help, he managed to stand and walk around the room, and he slowly gained back his strength. Then he had another bout of fever that put him back in bed for two days. During that time, he knew he was dying. He was certain of it because a man came in who was dressed in a fine black suit. Lying motionless with his eyes open, and surrounded by his hosts and a few others looking on seriously, he watched the man as he took a roll of string and measured from his head to his toes. Then he measured across his shoulders. It was for a box, he was sure, and he closed his eyes as the man measured again and again.

Two days later, when his fever at last departed for good, the guest opened his eyes and saw hanging at the wardrobe on the other side of the room an outfit of clothes, a nice wool coat, and, on the floor nearby, good walking boots.

• • •

Twelve days after he had arrived, the man put on the warm clothes that had been made for him, laced up his boots, and pulled on the shoulder bag full of provisions that had been prepared for him. Then he went downstairs, and gave the lady of the house a hug.

"We'll walk you to the edge of town, if you don't mind," said the lady's husband.

Their departing guest nodded.

Outside were gathered a few others of the town. The tailor, the cobbler, their wives, and some of their children. They all walked silently through the main street of town. It was a beautiful day, warmer than it had been for weeks, and the snow was fluffy and bright under the clear blue sky. There was a crisp note on the air, though, Sir Winter's whisper that he would soon come again and would stay until spring. They all felt it, even the guest who was a stranger to this region. But no one commented upon it, least of all the stranger, who had not said a word, and, they all felt certain, had no ability to speak. At the edge of town, the man who had been their guest stopped, then turned to them and shook hands with each, giving the women good hugs and deep soulful gazes.

"Well. Goodbye," said the man who had taken him in.

"Won't you stay until spring?" his wife asked again. "Soon we'll be having our Midwinter's feast, and it will be a fine affair that you'd be sure to enjoy."

For the first time, the stranger smiled, but he shook his head while doing so. Then he turned away but had walked only a few yards when he stopped and turned back to them.

"Other strangers will come and pass through your lands," he said softly. "Treat them with the same kindness and charity as you have treated me, and your lands shall prosper, your people shall thus be happy in their goodness, and the shelter the forest gives you shall be preserved. Verily, one shall someday come and, though he shall not be known to you, he shall become your King, and he shall remember you."

Astounded by his speech, and mystified by his words, the small gathering watched him depart northward. His gait was steady, his stride relaxed but swift. When he rounded a bend in the road and disappeared from view, they turned away, full of discussion as they went back to their shops and homes.

They did not see, and would not have understood if they had, that the stranger continued to smile as he hiked along. He no longer cared where the road took him. He now knew why he was sent this way. He had learned the sharp guilt of error, the cruel consequence of injustice, and the sting of abiding shame. But he had also learned that there were some people who cared not for such things, or, if they did, they had the heart to look beyond them. He had also learned that kindness and mercy were as important as justice and right. And far more powerful.

Imbued with a sense of resolve, the mystery of his existence permeated his thoughts. When he reached the top of a hill, he paused to look back at the far-off town. As he contemplated, a bluish light appeared behind him as a pinpoint, then it billowed and swirled. He felt the light's presence, its call. Suddenly, as if pulled by an invisible rope about his waist, he flew backwards into the glowing vapor. The next moment found him regaining his balance, standing in a wide circular room. There were many doors surrounding the place, doors that might lead to trial, perhaps to horror. But he stood and stared at the open door before him as it faded and disappeared from sight, replaced by the smooth gray stones of the wall.

Part I

Chapter 1

The Falls of Tiandari

Day 162

83 Days Remaining

Four days after Robby and Ullin made their desperate escape from the burning White Palace in Linlally, a large crowd gathered around the rim of the lake into which the five Falls of Tiandari poured. They stood well away from the spray of the cascade, and with their heads craned upward, they could see the top of the falls where the ornate flight deck jutted out from the walls that bordered Cupeldain's high and marvelous lake. They watched a lone figure who stood at its edge, a mere dot against the intense blue sky. Now and then, a smudge of smoke wafted across the scene above, as if in testament to the reason for the proceedings that were about to take place. Even over the incessant roar from the base of the falls, some thought they heard the duh-duh-DOOM, duh-duh-DOOM, duh-duh-DOOM of a slow-beaten cadence.

Long after the crowd had gathered, but not yet at the appointed hour, Lord Seafar sat at his desk in the Scribblers Room where he had been for most of the night and all of that morning. He had not eaten supper the night before, nor yet had any breakfast, and he refused assistance from the other officers of the special corps, choosing to work alone with True Ink and paper. For long periods he sat, pondering many points and questions, only to suddenly write out some line or other and watch it fade or remain. After careful and deliberate consideration, he would then write out another line and repeat the process. This went on all night, and the answers he received sometimes caused him to stand up and pace back and forth, sometimes hurrying back to pen and ink, bending over the table to jot another line. Once, he was so moved by anger that he kicked a chair across the room. The uncharacteristic outburst served only to shock the others in the room, busy at their own work which seemed all the more pressing since the attack.

Fortunately for the Scribblers, the fire had spared their secret working chambers, and though the damage was severe, only one wing of the Palace was completely lost, along with part of the rooftop landing for the flyers. Indeed, the entire south wing was destroyed, with its several stories that held the guest rooms and the dining halls and secondary kitchens. All that remained were the stone walls, and some of these had crumbled when the great timbers within collapsed. Gutted all the way down to the water's edge, there remained only a massive pile of charred rubble, jumbled beds and furniture, and great old timbers, many of which still crackled and smoldered. Besides the south wing, the adjacent west tower was also damaged, including part of the large flat deck of planks from where Robby and his rescuers had flown, now partially burned away so that no flyers could take off or alight there. The worst of it, though, were the many casualties, those killed and wounded by the fighting and the fire. Among the known dead were many of the Palace staff and thirty-seven members of the Gray Guard. This included the two young Scribblers who had given Robby their weather report from the Eastlands, killed before the alarm had sounded as they turned a corner, very likely laughing and joking as they came upon four of Faradan's men who were attempting to secure an escape route to the causeway. In the confusion, their bodies, hastily dragged into a nearby alcove by their killers, were not discovered until yesterday morning. Many others were still missing, including Henders and his assistant, Sonya, and they would likely not be found until the debris and wreckage of the fires could be excavated.

• • •

"Sir. It is almost time."

"Yes, thank you, Harrin," Seafar nodded, rising from his chair and carefully placing his notes into the stove. "Please have the staff, officers, and watch gather at the east palisades."

"Yes, sir."

He hastened to his quarters, where his man, Janson, was waiting with towel and basin, and Seafar methodically washed and shaved. Janson then helped Seafar change into a clean uniform to replace the blood- and soot-stained one he had worn for almost four days. He was helped on with his tunic jacket, his many ribbons already attached, his sword and harness, and then with his long gray cloak, tied back over his shoulders. Seafar then stood until Janson had circled him, inspecting his polished boots, belts, and the gold and silver of his medals before nodding.

"Very well, my lord," he said. "I think that will do."

"Thank you, Janson. I'll be back very shortly to change once more."

"Certainly, my lord."

Seafar walked out of his apartment to keep his appointment. Detachments of the Gray Guard, some in dress uniforms, others in battle gear, saluted as their general passed, then fell in behind him, all walking at a quick and purposeful pace. As they marched along the halls and down the stairs, and even through one of the galleries where some of the fighting had taken place, Seafar's mind ran from thought to thought. As horrific as the attack was, it had failed to accomplish its mission. His guests had made good their escape, the archives and the Scribblers Room were unscathed, and, thankfully, the Queen was far away in Glareth. Captain Faradan and three of his men had been captured, but all except Faradan had died from battle wounds in the interceding few days. Now, watched from above by those gathered at the east palisades, Lord Seafar and his company passed through the gates of the Palace and out onto the causeway. He could hear for the first time the field drums, their dreary toll floating across the lake from the flight deck overlooking the falls.

The True Ink had confirmed that Robby and his party were safe and were well on their way. And the ink revealed more than Faradan ever would, to be sure, but Seafar still had many questions that remained to be answered. The attack had been too carefully planned, and too expertly carried out, to have been hatched so quickly after Robby's arrival in Vanara. Seafar knew from his own sources that Faradan reported to Count Dialmor, who was missing. Seafar had questioned the man for hours on end, and Faradan remained amiable throughout it all, resigned to his fate, but he would say nothing but that he served his king. Now, since there was no point in delaying his duty in useless hope of revelations from Faradan, Seafar hoped that Queen Serith Ellyn, by using her own supply of True Ink, was apprised of the situation and would approve of the way this was being handled.

Arriving at the wall on the edge of the lake, Seafar marched up the stairs leading to the platform above. A few steps from the top, he paused, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and quickly straightened his tunic before proceeding the last few steps up and onto the flight deck followed by his Chief of Staff and two adjutants who took their places near the drummers.

Atop the flight deck were twenty officers of the Gray Guard standing in a line at the north side of the platform. They snapped to attention as Seafar stepped forward. To Seafar's left, along the west side of the deck, were ten more officers, and behind them were many members of the Queen's Council, four or five lords and ladies of Vanara, Lord Faslor and his sister Coreth, as well as Ambassador Lord Tarlway of Glareth, and Ambassador Lord Arleman of Duinnor. Members of the Duinnor Kingsmen and Duinnor Regulars were not invited to attend this gathering, regardless of their rank and in spite of their protests, but no doubt they watched from below.

The drummers stationed to Seafar's right continued to beat in unison, the slow somber blows of their sticks underscoring the gravity of these proceedings, and the officer in charge stepped forward and raised his hand in salute. Seafar raised his and held it long. He doubted if any living mortal had ever witnessed this ancient ceremony, and doubted if any of the Elifaen present had, either. His hand swept down, the drums ceased their beat, and for a moment the only sound that followed was the gentle snap and rustle of the Queen's pennant that flew from a wing-topped mast behind the dignitaries.

"How are things, Commander Staysul?" Seafar asked.

"All present and correct, my lord."

"Very well. Read the order, if you please."

"Yes, my lord."

The officer reached into his ornate shoulder case and withdrew a scroll, broke the seal, turned to face the gathering, and read loudly:

"All present, bear witness! By order of Queen Serith Ellyn's Lord Chancellor and High Regent, it is declared that Titus Faradan of Duinnor has committed dishonorable assault upon the Queen's subjects and upon Her Majesty's property. He has insulted the people of Vanara by conspiring to commit acts of treason against Realm Law, and by conducting unwarranted and unprovoked acts of a warlike nature against Vanara. He has carried out these acts upon Her Majesty's loyal officers, upon Her Majesty's loyal subjects, and upon Her Majesty's honored guests. He has committed assault and murder within and upon the soil of Vanara, and he has committed other acts of tyranny against the Laws of this Realm and against its people. It is the conclusion of a right jury of this Realm that Titus Faradan is guilty of these acts. Further, it is found that, since a state of peace exists between Her Majesty's Realm and the Realm of Duinnor, these acts are indeed treasonous to that peace. It is therefore ordered, according to the Laws of this Realm, and by the power granted to the Queen of Vanara by her people, and to Her Chancellor and Regent, being Judge Advocate General, the Lord Seafar, and by the will of the people and the courts of Vanara, that the Queen's Justice is hereby to be carried out in accordance with the Ancient Laws and Customs of this land."

The officer put away the scroll, saluted Seafar again, and returned to stand with his men.

Seafar walked stiffly to Lord Arleman and stood close before him.

"Lord Ambassador."

"Lord Chancellor."

Seafar did not acknowledge or return Arleman's slight bow.

"I have received your protest. Do you have anything to add?"

"I beg you to put a halt to these proceedings until the King has made his wishes known pertaining to this unfortunate affair."

"Anything else?"

"Only that Vanara will answer to the King, if you continue."

"Vanara answers to her Queen, and the Queen to her people."

Lord Arleman shook his head regretfully. "Then be it upon your head."

Seafar turned away and walked across the deck to the far side where Faradan stood facing him, his hands shackled before him. Just behind him, on the very edge of the platform that jutted far out over the falls, rested a large oblong block of stone, nearly waist-high, stood up on its end. To the top of the block was spiked a chain that draped down the stone then up again along Faradan's back to an iron band around his neck. He looked at Seafar without emotion, drawing himself more stiffly to military attention.

"It is not too late," Seafar said in a soft tone so that none but the condemned man could hear. "If you will confess the details of your raid, how it was planned, and who was responsible for it, I have it within my power and authority to commute your sentence."

"Thank you, my lord, but no. I shall only say what I have said all along. I am my King's servant."

"I see. Then I must do my duty."

"Of course, my lord."

Seafar stepped to the side of Faradan and drew his sword. Faradan looked up at the sky and smiled, his hardened visage softened by the sunlight on his face. Seafar put the tip of his blade against the top of the stone and gave it a slight push. It immediately fell over the side of the precipice, pulling the chain.

Chapter 2

Doubt's Offspring

Odds were even that a person summoned by the Avatar would never be seen again. An ordinary summons was enough cause for alarm, especially when those commanded to come were not accustomed to it: The appearance of the Kingsmen at your step, the sound of pommel upon door, the steady tramp of a dozen guards surrounding you as they took you away at quickstep. When the Kingsmen alone were sent to fetch those summoned, it was often as a guard of honor, for the Lords of Duinnor loved the display of pomp. Sometimes the Kingsmen were sent as intimidation, for the Lords of Duinnor also loved to display their power, especially when it could be exerted over others.

Still, when only the Kingsmen came, the people they passed merely looked on and hardly paused in conversation or work. Children sported about before them, trying to bring a smile to the soldiers' austere faces, while adults stood aside out of respect. And, as soon as the Kingsmen had passed, they were forgotten, and the people in the streets of Duinnor went on with their mundane affairs.

But when the Avatar came, whether by night or by the broad light of day, the stir it caused in the streets was one of dread and fear. Both the high and the lowly shrank from its approach. Everyone moved quickly out of the way, parents pulled their children with them, and the weak-hearted felt faint as it silently floated along the avenues and streets. Making no sound, the Avatar had the effect of also hushing the usual street noise, becalming all activity before it and for some distance in its wake. People hurriedly crowded into shops or any door that would open to them. Blinds were pulled and shutters closed as conversation paused until goosebumps subsided. Workmen who could not release the loads they were hoisting, or drivers who could not drive away into some side alley, held tight their ropes and reins and averted their eyes until the Avatar had safely passed. Some whispered silent prayers that it would continue on its way, that it would not stop (Please, let it not stop!), but would keep going (Please, let it keep going!). Pigeons fluttered off well before its coming, and even the chipping sparrows ceased their titter. Cats and mongrels slinked away, cautiously glancing over their hunched shoulders.

Those who spent their days and nights as beggars outside the Palace walls made to each other a count of each time it emerged from the gates, saying, well after it had passed, when the noise of their market had resumed, "Twelve times, in as many weeks," or, "That's twenty-seven this year, so far."

A dreadful thing it was, therefore, to see it come and go, and even more dreadful to have it arrive at your door. And so it was that Beauchamp, like all animals who have in some way more sense than their masters, perked upright, his long ears straight up and twitching, poised with intense alertness. With one of his powerful hind legs, he released two hard thumps on the rug where but a moment before he had been napping. He then bounded two strides to his left, and thumped again, his posture now crouched in readiness. It was the third thump that finally got Raynor's attention.

"What is the matter, bunny-boy?" he asked, leaning sideways from his desk and looking over his spectacles at the rabbit. It was then that Raynor became aware of the dense silence of his apartment, and he slowly placed the quill he held back into the inkwell. Looking toward the open window, he placed a sheet of paper over the note he had been writing. As he rose from his chair, Beauchamp thumped again and darted behind a table. A hard bang landed on the building's front door, as if it had been hit with an iron-shod mallet. Raynor stepped out of his room onto the landing and looked down the stairs at the front entrance just in time to hear the next thud. The door jarred so violently under the blow that it shook on its hinges, and dust fell from the lintel above.

"Well," he said to Beauchamp, now sitting at the hem of his robe, "this is not entirely unexpected."

In response, Beauchamp thumped again, made a circle around Raynor, and stopped to thump yet another time.

"Now, now. Who knows what this may be about? Perhaps our appeals are being answered. So, before the landlady has our silver for damages, we may as well answer the door. Ha, ha! Did you hear what I said? 'Answer the door!' Get it? 'Answer the door?' Ah-ha-haw! Now, where's my big hat?"

Just a moment later, wearing an overcloak and a tall pointed hat that looked too big for his crown yet nevertheless rested well on his head, Raynor emerged from the front entrance of his apartment building and faced another door. It was tall, and, other than the fact that it hovered about a foot from the ground and was painted bright apple-red, it was in every manner of appearance an ordinary door that might lead to a bedroom or chamber. And though it had no doorframe, threshold, or lintel, it was equipped with plain iron hinges and an iron knob, all old and worn as if from years of use. Raynor was tempted to reach out and turn the knob, just to see what might happen, but as the thought came to him, the mysterious thing swung on its own and turned completely around, its backside no different than its front, and it began to move away. Raynor shrugged, adjusted his heavy hat with both hands, and followed.

"At least it is daylight," he said, "since it is usually far worse for those fetched at night."

• • •

In and around the land of Duinnor were many palaces and fine estates, both within the city and also scattered throughout the Realm, on the fertile plains and up into the hilly highlands nestled on the slopes of the western mountains. While some were more ancient, and others more pleasurable to behold, none were so vast or held so many secrets as Duinstone, the Palace of Kings, where resided the one King With No Name, King of all Kings and Sovereign Ultimate of all the Seven Realms. From the spires to the foundation, and all within its rosy-hued marble walls, it reeked of power and authority. No one knew all of its secrets, and few desired to delve into its mysteries and its recesses. But many had acquaintance with some portion or other of its interior, either the Hall of Lords, from where the empire was administered, or the Hall of Warriors, wherein Kingsman generals made their headquarters. There were many bureaus and many rooms of clerkish work, many places of meeting, and many vaults and archives full of riches. It was a place wherefrom commerce was guided, laws were formed, and justice meted out. And there were places, dark and deep, where less savory business was conducted—punishment, imprisonment, and worse.

In its upper stories, lofty and removed from the more mundane duties required for governing, were other halls and chambers for more inscrutable activities. Astronomers had their observatories, apothecaries mixed their potions, and alchemists worked, all charged to perform their own secret experiments and to make their own arcane calculations. Surrounding these places, along the rim of the sprawling building, were many towers from where the agents of the King watched over the city and looked beyond its walls, their eyes intent to their spyglasses, their minds wary and suspicious, their hands writing down the things they saw. Higher still, above even those places, rose up the High Tower itself, made of cleverly laid blocks so that the uppermost portion was wider than its base. Within the interior of the turret was a winding staircase that emptied into a long foyer outside of the High Chamber, the abode of the Unknown King and his mysterious Avatar. One could only hope for, or have dread of, a summons to this place, to an interview within the High Chamber. For some who came here, it was the last place they would ever see sunlight, afterwards taken to the deepest places of the Palace, thereafter becoming lost and forgotten.

It was not the first time Raynor had been to the Palace. In fact, long ago, he himself had chambers there, overseeing the education of those selected to become Kingsmen. But that was very long ago, and by now nearly all of his former students had passed away of old age or had died in the many wars and conflicts that vexed the world. And, since his fall from favor those fifteen decades ago, this was not the first time he had been summoned back to the Palace. But it was the first time he had been taken upward instead of downward, and up and up the Avatar led, along with an armed escort of Kingsmen, winding around and around the marble staircase, on and on. At last they emerged into a long wide hallway, passed through guarded doors, and entered the High Chamber itself. There, waiting for him, was Lord Banis of the Elifaen House of Elmwood, one of the few Elifaen to ever hold a position of high rank in Duinnor. Yet he was the First Lord of the High Chamber, the highest minister to the King, as he had been these past two hundred years and more, the second most powerful person in the world. He stood to one side of the room, near an open window, with his back to the glowing curtain that stretched across the chamber, behind which the inscrutable King stood, his light emanating through the fabric. The Kingsmen escorts retreated as the Avatar floated across the floor to take a place on the opposite side of the room from Banis. The doors behind Raynor closed with a soft but firm bump.

It was an oddly pleasant chamber, the late-afternoon sun shining through the tall window to warm the tile floor. Odd, because there was not a stick of furniture to be seen, nor was there a speck of adornment anywhere within the room, other than the simple green curtain that crossed all the way from one wall to the other. In striking contrast to the rest of the Palace, there were no statues here, no tapestries, no paintings or displays of weapons, nor were there any cases of treasure or any artifacts from Duinnor's long history. Yet the simple room seemed appropriate, for the glow behind the curtain, and the knowledge of who gave off the light, was awesome enough.

Adjusting his hat, Raynor turned his attention to Banis, a figure who appeared to be about thirty years old, but Raynor knew he was a hundred times that age at the very least. Lord Banis was dressed in a loose-fitting robe of the darkest red, gathered at the waist by a silver mesh of fine chain. His hands were held casually together before him, his fingers entwined, and his long silky brown hair draped smoothly downward and then flowed back up and over his shoulders. The resemblance to his daughter, Esildre, was remarkable, and he shared her beauty, too, in a gender-defying way. Yet his face was completely without expression, his amber eyes vaguely distracted by thought as he continued to gaze out through the window.

"Our King wishes me to put certain questions to you in his presence," Lord Banis said in a soft and delicate voice.

Raynor bowed low, holding onto his uncooperative hat as he did so.

"I am at the King's service, my lord."

"How many of your kind, the Melnari, are there in the world?"

"I do not know." Raynor cocked a shaggy eyebrow at the unexpected question. "But only a very few, surely."

"Please name all that you know, or have ever known of."

Raynor scratched his ear, and, adjusting his hat, he shrugged.

"Well. There was Ishtorgus, who, it is said, was lost in a maelstrom off the coast of Glareth. And, let's see, Barian the Counter, who traced the stars and delved into their mysteries. He was killed when struck by a burning rock that fell from the heavens. At least, that is what I heard. Then there was Tolimay the Angry, who had such an ill-temper. He became so upset at a trick played upon him by a little boy that he exploded into a thousand bits. Hm. Messy, I'm sure, but I'm positive there must have been more to it than that. Um, then, oh, yes! Micharam, the forest poet who lived nearby to the land where Halethiris once was, and who, it is told, was chased down and beaten to death by an offended butterfly. Yes, a preposterous tale!"

"Is that all?" Banis asked.

"All? Let's see. Myself, of course, Ishtorgus, Barian, Micharam, Tolimay…"

"Do you not forget Collandoth?"

"Oh, him! Collandoth the Wanderer. How silly of me!"

"Our King wishes to know if you have forgotten any others?"

"Hm. I don't know…let me think. But if I have forgotten, how would I know?"

"Do you know the whereabouts of Collandoth?"

"Yes. He has taken up residence in the east, so I hear."

"In the east. Yes. A place called Tulith Attis. Do you know of that place?"

"Indeed, I do, as would anyone who knows something of the history of the Seven Realms."

"Then you know also how it fell."

"Yes. The defenders were betrayed to the powerful and overwhelming Dragonkind army that swept through the east in those days and besieged that place in fearful battle."

"So the story goes. And the famous trap laid by Heneil failed to prevent it."

"And the Bell was not rung to warn the embattled people," Raynor said.

"Ah," Banis said. Raynor perceived a shadow, perhaps that of a large bird, interrupt the sunlight that bathed Banis's face.

"But you know better, don't you Raynor?" Banis continued. "As all who have been keen to understand the mysterious events of this past summer. In fact, the Great Bell was rung, and with its three mighty tolls, it released the incantations laid upon it into the air and into the earth, setting off every bell, chime, and gong in this city."

"So that is what caused the alarm!"

"Do not play ignorant." Banis's tone changed instantly, though he still looked away from Raynor. "Your kind may hide your thoughts from the Throne, but there are other ways, less subtle ways, to obtain cooperation."

Banis let that sink in, then turned, frowning at Raynor, and gave a shrug. "We know that you received a visitor recently. From the east. And we are certain that you received some message from Collandoth, and our…agents tracked the returning messenger as far as Nasakeeria."

"Nasakeeria?" For the first time since the interview began, Raynor was concerned, and he stiffened slightly. If Certina had entered that land….

"That is so. Therefore, your reply to Collandoth, whatever it was, went no further than that place, for, as we all know, none ever emerge from there."

"I really don't know what you are talking about. Collandoth is an old colleague from my days at the Academy. And I did write to him using the King's Post. But that was quite a while ago. And none but my own feet have stepped across my threshold in many a month, save the charwoman of my apartment and perhaps a book buyer or two."

"Collandoth's messenger, as you well know, would just as easily come in through a window as a door. Let us forego pretenses and play-acting. We know of your collaboration with Collandoth and with Lord Seafar of Vanara."

"Seafar? I have never met the man."

Banis coolly ignored Raynor's statement, saying, "The wind of conspiracy softly blows through all of your affairs. Shall I tell you the note it plays? It is the music of treason, no less!"

"Treason," Raynor stated. "Conspiracy? You would speak to me of conspiracy. You, who have guided the unjust to play for you the song of corruption. You, who have cast down great and noble houses to advance your power over others. And you have done far worse!"

There was a disturbance behind the curtain as Raynor spoke, and a low hum filled the room.

"Treason?" Raynor went on. "From the mouth of he who has turned his back upon his own people and has turned the fabled justice of Duinnor against them?"

Banis crossed the room quickly and, without changing his mild expression, slapped the mystic so hard that Raynor's hat tumbled from his head and landed upright onto the floor a few feet away.

Raynor glared at Banis, a trickle of blood dripping down from one corner of his mouth. He glanced at his hat, and touched his cut lip. He looked at the spot of blood on his fingertip, then back at Banis, his glare turning to a smile. "Has it been so long since these chambers have heard truth?"

The hum changed tones, and Banis suddenly put his hands over his ears with a look of pain. Turning away from Raynor, he staggered a few steps toward the glowing curtain and fell to his knees. The curtain then was parted by a thread of bright-glowing amber. Now Banis covered his eyes, bowing low. But Raynor stood firm, did not bow, and did not avert his eyes as the King emerged from behind his veil like a ball of golden yarn, slowly spinning. The edges of this weird form seemed to waver and shimmer, as if great heat emitted from it, and Raynor squinted to maintain his gaze as the room grew brighter. But the air noticeably cooled. The Red Door remained as it was, passive, as if it was indeed the inanimate object it represented. The King floated forward, coming to stop just in front of the trembling Banis.

"I can speak in words for ordinary ears," came a male voice as if from a great distance. "To Lord Banis and all others of the world, I may speak to directly, if I wish, without the need of sound, so that only the one I speak to may hear my words, and only I may hear their reply. But you and your kind are different. Do you not fear me?"

"I do not."

"I believe you. And it is refreshing, I must say. If it is truly true. But, I dare say, you do have fears."

Raynor watched the spinning cloud of fibrous light move away from Banis and approach the window where a dark form now sat on the ledge. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Raynor saw that it was a black eagle.

"I, too, have my Familiars. And what I do not see for myself and through my servants, such as Banis, the eagles see for me."

"The black eagles of Secundur serve none but him," Raynor stated.

"Oh, I did not say they were loyal to me. You see, Secundur and I have a longstanding accord. We sometimes share resources, too. I lend him my servants, when it suits me to do so. And he lends his to me."

"The Dark One has no interest but his own gain."

"Do you think I am so foolish? But why should I do what others would do for me?"

"Any bargain made with him is foolhardy. He is intent upon your downfall."

"Oh? Then you and he have something in common."

"Your influence wanes while his grows. I need do nothing to play midwife to change. By your own actions, and those you choose as your servants, the Throne hastens things, and weakens with every passing day. Long have you been obsessed with the subjugation of Vanara, yet your grip weakens upon the other Realms. You have done nothing to stop the rebellion in the east, while the Dragon King marshals his armies to the south, preparing them to strike."

"Let them strike! Vanara is still strong and will take the edge from his threat, as Vanara has always done. Tracia will return to the fold, for its own sake, and order will be established once again in that land."

Raynor realized, of course, that there was much else at work here. The King did not merely want order, but something else, too: His order.

"In the early years of your rule," Raynor said, "you united the Realms under your justice, bringing peace and security. In those days, despots and warlords had no share in your bounty or protection. Thugs of every rank feared your law and the swift and sure hand of your justice. But all that changed. The King's Men were given great authority, and the Edicts of Vanara began taking the fruit of Vanaran lands and labor, and, eventually, began taking the land itself. Thus was Vanara made to reward your servants in Duinnor, in lease and in treasure. Vice and corruption found new houses among the mighty of the Realms and in the Courts of Duinnor. In your name, all manner of acts are perpetrated upon the meek and the disfavored. The Realms now vie amongst themselves, straining the union of your rule. Duinnor and its people have put themselves above all others, and they suffer by it. Shadows now creep back into the lands of the earth. The Dragonkind bide their days in preparation, and Shatuum sends forth its minions to probe and provoke. And the spirit of the Dark One himself has found ears among the highest of the lands, driving wedges into every crack he finds."

"It is all for the best," the King replied mildly. "Indeed, even Banis believes so. The world does change, and it is my duty, not yours, to guide that change. Or is that what the Melnari think to be their purpose?"

Raynor remained silent as the King floated nearer. The trembling Banis remained kneeling, as if unaware of the conversation.

"Certainly Ashlord has been no stranger to meddlesome change," the King went on. "And now, it seems, he seeks to usurp my rule and to install an upstart in my place. Yes. I have many agents. I need not gaze into your mind to know these things."

Raynor noted that he called Ashlord by the name given to him by Men. Might this be a clue to the King's identity?

"Even now he approaches the city," the King continued. "But why? Is he so audacious? Does he not know that none may take my throne save he who knows the Name? Do not be so shocked by my words, Raynor the Wise. None who seek my throne can take the direct path to it. This we all know, do we not? Surely Ashlord does. So I am puzzled, you see. The Bellringer is Ashlord's companion. But can the Bellringer be the Usurper? Why else does Ashlord bring him forth to me? Your colleague is a deep one. Or else he is imprudent."

"Your agents do you a disservice," Raynor countered. "Or perhaps they are not so astute as they lead you to believe. I will tell you, then, that it is for the preservation of Duinnor that my colleague comes. It is news he brings, and people to bear witness to his tidings. The rebellion in Tracia that is made little of here has now spilled its ambitions abroad. Indeed, they go to war against Duinnor by striking first the old Eastlands Realm."

"Glareth and Tracia have squabbled over the Eastlands ever since King Inrick died," stated the King. "Tracia is jealous of the regency of Glareth over those lands, and there is now greater animosity among the ruling rebels since Glareth sent aid to the ousted Prince. Glareth is not threatened by any Tracian foray, no matter how insulting it may be. I have left that dispute to my judges to sort out in their good time."

"King. Collandoth, the one you call Ashlord, comes to tell of this latest incident. And he suspects Tracia has designs on her neighbors in the south and west. She is emptying the Eastlands of food and forage to feed and supply a massive army now poised against Masurthia. And there is reason to believe that the Triumvirate of Tracia has made an alliance with the Sun King of the Dragonlands."

Squinting, Raynor watched the uncomfortable light from the King spin more intensely, in a manner that he could only interpret as agitation. Then, in spite of the brilliant light that made his eyes water, Raynor perceived a shape within it, the vague figure of a man. At that moment came a sudden pounding in Raynor's head, an attempt by some force to probe his mind, to merge thoughts, perhaps as he and Beauchamp did. Though painful, Raynor easily resisted the assault, and the sensation faded.

"You do not know whether to believe me," Raynor stated.

"There is more that you do not tell me. What of the Bellringer?"

"I do not know how the Great Bell was rung. Or why it was done. When Collandoth investigated, he found only a young man, a mere boy, who knew nothing of its import. Shortly afterwards, he wrote to me. I still have the letter, if you care to see it."

Raynor knew that the letter, sent by Ashlord two weeks after the Bell had rung, was read by the King's spies before it had ever arrived. Although carefully resealed, they had failed to rearrange its complex folds in the proper way. And, Raynor was sure, they had failed to detect the encoded message hidden within the plain words. Ashlord had written: "He comes." Raynor smiled inwardly.

"That is a kind offer," said the King, now hovering again in front of Lord Banis. "Perhaps you would share what news his messenger brought to you?"

"I have done so already. He relayed to me the events of the attack on the Eastlands, carried out by armies from Tracia, and that he and witnesses to those events were traveling in haste to Duinnor to spread the news."

"Is that all?"

"That is the gist of it. But, apparently, the Throne is not without its defenders, no matter that they are far away and forgotten by you. Lord Tallin proposes to engage the Redvest forces of Tracia, though he is profoundly outnumbered. Collandoth was brief, and he relayed only that Tallin makes a bid for time, believing he can stall the Redvest army throughout the winter, and thereby perhaps delay their spring offensive. He most certainly hopes to weaken them. Through Collandoth, Tallin sends his plea for aid."

"And why have you not come forward with this news before now?"

Raynor shrugged. "I informed General Kecker of the King's Men and also Lord Gateway. They have both refused to see me, and I have had no response to my several notes sent to them. Indeed, I assumed that was why I was summoned, and I expected to see one or both of those gentlemen here."